What Goes Up
by bobblychicken
Summary: A shorter series chronicling Ripslinger's rise to power in air racing. Despite that sounding like a rags to riches plot, I must warn you; there is nothing happy or uplifting about this fic. This is part of the If You Tame Me headcanon, and if you haven't read that, some of this might not make much sense. Otherwise, enjoy? Ratings will change with each chapter.
1. Southern Point

**Rated PG-13 for Graphic Violence and Language**

* * *

Flight. That all-encompassing freedom. The release. An escape. A young aircraft taking flight after many weeks spent on the ground, exercising and strengthening their engines, getting used to the function of their control surfaces and hopping, will experience what a great many creatures, including humans, who despite their all their achievements and endeavors will never be able to fully comprehend. The world tumbling away and shrinking into a surreal pretend toyland underneath you, the feeling of the wind and the air currents under your wings supporting you. And then when you get there, high into the clouds, you find yourself in another world separate from the one you've always known. Alien, and yet you are assaulted with the sense that it belonged to you. That you were made for it, and it was up here waiting for you all along. Your sanctuary.

All this was a mere trifle to a young Ripslinger. Fifteen years old, and just freshly broken out of the orphanage where he had spent the last seven years of his life after the great tragedy of the Border to Border Rally of the West that lead to the deaths of nearly his entire family. He flew on in the dead of night, completely unaware of the momentousness of his own first flight. His mind was elsewhere, as it had been ever since his sister, Isabelle, had been taken from him. All of his energies and thought processes had been focused on anything and everything that would aid him in his goal of getting back the last thing he knew he had of the life he'd lived before. If he had been cognizant of any of it at the time, he still would only have regarded it as just one more thing that had been stolen from him. And it was something that he would never get back.

The young blue and red P-51 panted hard. He hadn't been airborne for very long, but for him it was still somewhat early for him to be doing any flying at his age. As much as he had watched other planes fly, whether in real life or video, scrutinizing and retaining every detail, he'd had little time to put any of it into any real practice, and even though he would have aged out of the system in another year, where his engine would have been more ready to take on the strain, he couldn't stand to wait any longer. He had to find Isabelle. Where was she now, he had wondered? How far from each other were they after so many years? What if she were being treated badly, wherever she had ended up? Suppose she had even escaped, as he had, and was hiding somewhere, in need of his help? He had to find her!

But in order to do that, he must go back to the last place he wanted to be right now, and as his family's home came into view, Ripslinger's anxiety mounted. The compound was now his, technically, but he would not be living in it. Closer and closer he flew, and as he did so he found himself plunged into that strange state of mind which from time to time visits all creatures, although for the young Mustang much more frequently than most will experience, even in childhood, when our immediate surroundings take on the aspect of a distant fantasy. We wonder who we are, the very sounds about us seem unreal, and for a time, until it passes, it appears strange and arbitrary to find ourselves in this physical body, in this particular place, under this singular sky. And then before he knew it, Ripslinger was suddenly taxiing off the landing strip to the front doors.

It was a sorry state away from the palace-like grandeur it used to have before falling into disrepair. His father had had it built the moment that he and his mother had been told that there would be four in the litter, a large litter for P-51s. The gardens were unkempt and had died away into weeds and most of the windows and doors were boarded. Funny. It seemed so much bigger when he was small. Taking a moment to examine the boarded up main entrance, he gripped them in his teeth and easily ripped them away. Once inside, Ripslinger wandered through the main hangar, the darkness lit only by the moon outside, taking note of the thick cobwebs and dust that coated everything. The place looked as if it hadn't been touched since his family had last left it. Good. It should still be here.

There was an odd echo as the blue and red plane made his way through toward the study, a deep, hollow sort of ambiance. Then he stopped. He was just about to pass the playroom. Hesitantly, Ripslinger peered inside. There were still toys here and there, left out. He stared for a moment, then sucked in a quiet gasp, his eyes going wide as a flash of his young self rough-housing with his brothers popped though his sight, disappearing the next time he blinked. He shook himself, then continued on his way.

Tall, grand bookshelves lined one wall of the study. Ripslinger poked around in them, trying to remember the spot where it was. He found it. A section of books that were not books, that when pulled away revealed a hidden compartment. Yes. It was still there. Thirty-two hundred dollars. Not enough for what he needed, but enough to get him started on the road to earning real money to get it. Enough to get into air racing, which was really the only way he knew how to make money. He was as yet too young to race on any American circuits. Seventeen was the absolute youngest planes were allowed to start competing, and most still wouldn't start until entering their twenties. He would have to head even further south, out of the country, where air racing was less regulated so that he could train and gain experience until he could legally race in the U.S..

As he tucked the cash away, something glinted in the moonlight, catching his attention. Curious, he went over to see what it was, and paused, staring. It was a bejeweled charm bracelet, meant to be worn around the inside of the landing gear. A delicate silver chain going from a thin plate encrusted with a diamond and sapphire on each side, an inscription reading "Per aspera ad astra".

It was Isabelle's. It was her present for their last birthday. He found it odd that it was still here; after receiving it she never went anywhere without it. He had been of the mind that it had been left and destroyed in the hotel fire, but now that he thought about it, he didn't remember seeing it while they were away over the course of the rally. He picked it up, the chain hanging gently and glittering from his teeth.

Ripslinger was about to turn back and leave the room when something else made him stop. It was the big portrait of his parents, taken shortly after they had Bonded when they found out that his mother was carrying his litter. He had always liked this picture. They looked so happy. But then he checked when this time he looked upon it, they weren't smiling. They were looking directly at him, almost like they were there in the study with him. His mother and father were silent, mute, as their body language exuded fearful nervousness, looking down upon him pleadingly with worried eyes. He shut his own tightly and turned away, unable to look at them anymore. _Please... I don't know what else to do!_

As the tears that he furiously tried to hold back squeezed from his eyes, the bitter sense of all that he had lost came pouring over Ripslinger, tightening in a sharp-edged spiral, diminishing him, paring away his vitality and memories, his very thoughts and all those inward recesses in which he had thought to hide. He stood still, feeling himself reduced to a tiny, hard point which must at all costs be kept safe, which must not be destroyed, or his sister would truly be lost; just as the last drop of the remains of a rainstorm disappears into the ground.

And in that instant a great flame of abandonment crackled up in the thorny tangle of Ripslinger's mind. He could be done with anyone's care for a while. He, too, could be burdened with no name, no past, no future; with no regret, no memory, no loss; no fear but caution, no longing but hunger and arousal, no misery but bodily pain. No part of himself need be exposed except his awareness of the present and even that gone in an instant like the flash of a lightning strike. He was going to find his sister. And when he had her, he would get out of the racing business, for it and any success he had was no more than a means to that end. He would take them away and keep himself and her safe and hidden where no one would harm them ever again. And they would be happy.

XXxx

 _Two years later..._

XXxx

Venice, California, 2003. The Southern California Aerobatics Conference, or as many people simply called it, SoCal. It was one of the largest Sport and Formula specialties in the world, and racers, teams, suppliers, and syndicates alike came from all over to race and advertise. A good place for one wanting to get noticed, as it was a good place for recruiters looking for new talent.

And so it was for the Antin brothers, Roy and Sid, of Antech Air Racing Inc., an older organization among racing teams. Antech had once been a quite successful company, but with the growing popularity of air racing at each year that passed, it was becoming harder and harder to find new racers before they were snatched up by up-and-coming racing teams, as everyone and their brother seemed to want a piece of a business that kept getting more and more lucrative. Too late had they decided that it might not be that bad of an idea to recruit more racers, as their last and most successful racer that they'd had, a Corvus 540 by the name of Asteroid, was still only one plane. He had of course retired before they could acquire anyone, leaving Antech scrambling to get back in on the action.

With the board breathing at their bumpers, the two Lexus LS400s searched hard for their new star. The perfect plane to bring them out of the doldrums and into relevancy again. As insurance, they had brought Kenny Doosan with them, the head of the recruiting department, with a real eye for sizing up a plane with. And they were not the only ones. There were at least a dozen other racing outfits out for the same purpose, and Antech always seemed one length behind them. Practically every prospective they approached seemed to already be spoken for. Until Kenny seemed flinch and shiver as a chill went over his frame. About to continue, something made the forklift turn. Realizing that he was no longer with them, Roy and Sid reversed and turned back to see their recruiter stopped dead and staring hard at a rather large plane with an even larger crowd gathered around him.

It was a racing P-51. A fine one at that, even though it was obvious that he was quite young; his intakes were only just beginning to flare. But even more striking, apart from his size for a male Mustang at such an age, was the fact that he had contra-rotating propellers. It was a rare genetic mutation that would pop up from time to time in certain models, P-51s being one of them, and as much as they could be problematic could more often than not be a real boon to a racing airplane. The two sedans looked him over from a distance. He certainly was dressed for the part, they thought, noticing his red, checker-marked underside, and obviously knew his way around a crowd from how he seemed to have them hanging on his every word. The aircraft in the mix in particular seemed to have an odd air of disturbance and confusion among them, but were also curious and no less compellingly captivated, as a rabbit watches a dancing weasel. Surely this plane must already be with another racing conglomerate, even though it was odd that he should be here anyway, normally you wouldn't see any Unlimited racers at SoCal. But just then as the three vehicles were about to move on, the blue and red P-51 said the magic words.

"Out of twenty-four outs, I have never not finished a race or even come in second. So who among you knows somebody who wants to know what it's like to really win?" the stranger crowed, then his gaze shifted over at the Antin brothers, with Kenny following behind, approaching him. "There is no plane that can defeat me."

"We do," shouted Roy, the deep green Lexus.

The plane regarded the three of them with scrutiny as they made their way before his nose. His presence was overwhelming. He seemed to take up so much space in how he held himself, but Roy and Cid kept their cool. How would it look, especially to this plane, to be shown up by someone so much their junior?

"May we have a word with you?" asked Sid, his lacquer being a deep, dark blue.

XXxx

Kenny, ever the picture of professionalism, hung back as his superiors spoke to the Mustang in a more out of the way location of the competition. His name was Ripslinger. He thought that the name sounded familiar somehow, but brushed it off. Kenny was unsure of this plane. Nothing about him was rubbing him in a good way. His disinterest. His air of boredom. His eyes. They just seemed so empty, yet had a certain keenness about them that was unsettling. As he spoke to his bosses, the plane blinked, and as his eyes opened, olive-colored orbs had shifted over lazily to land on the black and red forklift as he continued speaking. Something was wrong with this plane. Everything in him told him so, but Kenny held firm, determined not to let this plane know that he was cowed, even though he knew that the P-51 knew better.

"Twenty-four straight wins in Tijuana, huh?" Roy was saying, "It certainly sounds impressive, but even if they could be verified, none of those wins will count here in the States. Who was your trainer? And why aren't you numbered?"

"Never had either," was Ripslinger's short answer.

"Really now? Did you just spring up out of a hole in the ground?" asked Sid, a wry smile on the midnight blue Lexus' face.

"I'm self-taught. And as for my registration, it's a story that I won't bore you with and has nothing to do with what we're doing here," the red and blue Mustang replied coolly. "You and I both know that."

Roy and Sid each flashed each other knowing smirks while Kenny hid his growing trepidation. This plane was learning them as fast as they were trying to learn him. He knew he had this in the bag and they would give him whatever he wanted before he would even have to show them what he could do.

"Now..." Ripslinger continued, "I know what _I_ can do for _you._ The real question is, what can you offer me? What confidence should I have in a corporation who's CEOs run their own errands?"

Now at this the Antin brothers laughed. They laughed! Here this plane was insulting them and practically telling them how to do their jobs, and they were laughing. They were simply too enamored with his boldness and aloof, candid demeanor. Maybe Sid had something when he had joked if the plane had sprung out of the ground, thought Kenny. This devil had his teeth in them and was not letting go, and for all the pittie could tell, they were glad for it. Roy chuckled.

"Now, now. We haven't even been given a demonstration of your great talents. Why don't we go somewhere more appropriate and show us what you can do before we start discussing any particulars."

The sun was beginning to set now as they arrived on the oval course, a light, warm breeze tickling over their plating.

"Just a few standard Unlimited class laps around the field, please," Sid was saying.

"How many do you want me to do?" asked the P-51.

"Enough for us to make a proper, informed decision," answered Roy.

Ripslinger nodded, and then prepared for his take-off. Engine roaring to life and fire as puffs of white smoke emanated from his exhausts, Roy and Sid looked at one another happily. Up he flew, flying around and lining himself up for the starting approach as the two cars and the forklift down below each got their stop watches at the ready.

"Engine sounds wonderful," the deep blue car remarked.

As he flew down and crossed the starting point, they all started their watches. Digital numbers flickering, neither vehicle hardly blinked as they all observed the Mustang's flight and movement in the air. He could stand to tighten things up a little, but otherwise very nice. He completed his first lap. Clicking their stopwatches, they looked for the numbers to appear in the top display as the count in the main display started over. [1]Min [4.0]Sec. Very nice.

"Beautiful," Roy murmured as Ripslinger roared overhead, sounding like a comet with a Corvette attached to it.

Around and around the P-51 flew, altitude no more than sixty feet coming around the far turn as he dove and knife-edged. The three on the ground were so entranced that only after the third lap did they notice something extraordinary. [1]Min [2.6]Sec... [1]Min [0.0]Sec... [0]Min [58.8]Sec...

"Impossible..." Kenny whispered.

"Alright, call him in," said Sid.

As the group drove down to the landing strip they all could not stop gaping at the times.

"Good grief..." Roy was saying.

"You're telling me," the midnight blue Lexus rejoined, "I think this is it fellas; we've found our plane."

"No doubt about it," agreed Roy, "He's got the perfect personality for what we need, the perfect physical type. This is the one we've been waiting for."

"I don't know..." Kenny ventured, knowing it was fruitless, but still willing to try his damnedest to sway his CEOs. "This will be the first time we've ever kept an Unlimited racer. You do realize how much a plane like him will cost to maintain?"

"I don't care about that," Roy said, "After that performance, I have no doubts that he will more than pay for himself."

"But what about his size?" the pittie tried again, "He's already as big as most Mustangs will be as adults, and he still has a few more years of growth and a lot of weight coming to him. He may get too heavy to race efficiently."

"And his engine will also grow with him, it's no matter," Sid countered.

"But he's got no papers," Kenny pointed out, starting to despair, "Not even so much as a pedigree. It's not going to matter how fast he can fly, they'll never let him race."

Both brother's laughed at this as Ripslinger touched down aways away from them as they drove up to meet him.

"Those will be easy enough to forge," smirked Sid. "I'm telling you, this is the one. The answer to all our prayers. This is the plane that's going to put us back in the spotlight like Antech has never been before. You saw what he just did. Imagine what he'll be like when he's properly trained, or hell his ability when he's fully matured?"

Ripslinger rolled to a stop in front of them, cool and collected as he stared them down with a steely gaze, hardly even a pant to his breaths after his efforts.

"He will be unstoppable..."

XXxx

Later that night, back in the hotel in the conference room team Antech were drawing up the paperwork as Ripslinger received a full health diagnostic from their chief mechanic. The blue and red plane stood still for the heavy but kind-looking forklift as he did his physical on him, only stiffening and curling his lip when it came down to opening up the panels of his cowling and taking a few pokes around his engine.

"Now, now..." the mechanic had said firmly but softly, "It's alright. I'm not gonna try anything funny, I'm just taking a look. There you go."

While the pittie wrote up his report, Ripslinger went over with the Antin brothers to get started on the tedious task of going through his paperwork and discussing policies and terms. Kenny was surprised at how much control they were allowing this plane to have. Over hiring, merchandise, marketing, among other things. They might as well just hand him the company while they were at it. And those were only what he wanted changed about what already was; he had his list of demands too.

"Date of birth?" Roy was rattling off.

"April twenty, nineteen eighty-six," said Ripslinger.

"Where were you born?"

"At home, in Chino."

"Alright. Name of Sire and Dam."

"Slingblade," the P-51 answered, "...and my mother was Glory."

The whole room seemed to go silent in that moment as both Lexus' checked and stared. Kenny turned around. That's why the name sounded familiar.

"Something wrong?" Ripslinger asked stiffly.

"Uh... No..." Roy hesitated, before continuing down the line, "Ancestry?"

Once all the paperwork had been finished, Ripslinger was over eating a good meal offered and prepared by Antech staff, Kenny and the Antin brothers huddled together out of ear shot.

"That's impossible," Sid was saying, "The entire family died in a freak hotel fire years ago. There were no survivors."

Roy took a look back over at the feasting plane, shaking his front slightly.

"There _is_ a lot of resemblance. And he's the right age. I'd have to see pictures to be absolutely sure."

"Right," said Sid, "It's odd though, to my knowledge there are very few pictures of Slingblade the Boomslang or Glory in the archives, and barely any of their offspring. All that's really left is their legacy."

"It would certainly account for his ability. Who else's kid would be able to do what he does? If he is who he says he is then that kind of legacy could be ours. We've potentially hit the jackpot here."

"I'd say we should keep it under wraps though, for the time being," Sid conceded, "At least until he really proves himself, which I have no doubts that he will. It's one thing to have a new upstart plane come blowing out of the gates, but if we go spouting off about this and we're wrong, we're cooked."

"Agreed," said Roy. "Porter, what do you think."

The forklift mechanic was just coming up with his files on Ripslinger's diagnostic.

"He's a bit undernourished, but that shouldn't be difficult to correct. Other than that he's in very good shape," reported Porter, "His engine is like nothing I've ever seen. I was expecting there to be modifications after what you described to me, but as far as I can tell, that is indeed the engine he was born with."

"Oh really?" Roy said with interest, "Do tell."

"It's quite robust, even for a racing P-51, every single component of it. It functions normally at higher levels that would be stressful to other planes of his kind. Definitely explains his stamina and acceleration."

"Very good, thank you Porter."

The forklift nodded and took his leave. The two cars turned to Kenny now.

"And how about you?" asked Sid, "What does our head recruiter think of our new star?"

"I don't like it," the black and red forklift came right out and said, to the surprised confusion of his bosses. "Something just doesn't seem right about this plane. He comes out of nowhere, no verifiable history, no number..."

"We've already discussed all that," Roy interrupted. "All we're really worried about is his ability to do what we need him to do. Can he do it?"

"Well if it were a question of his capabilities then..."

"Can he do it?" Sid repeated, firmer.

Kenny sighed.

"...Yes..." he replied reluctantly. "I just... have this feeling..."

"Then there's nothing more to discuss," Roy concluded. "Look, you've been pretty resistant to this thing right from the get-go. Tell you what, if you're so worried about him, why don't we just make you his handler? You've been due for a promotion for a while; that should be a pretty big step for you."

Kenny tried extremely hard to hold his expression. The statement was a jail-sentence. A funeral march. This was the absolute last thing that he wanted to happen out of this whole thing. This day could not possibly get any worse.

XXxx

Ripslinger went back to his own hotel. The Antin brothers had told him that the contracts would be ready in the morning, and that his new home at their headquarters in West Los Angeles would be ready to receive him by then. He was glad that this would be the last night spent in a hotel. He hated them now, and would forever lament that no one could seem to build one where the penthouses were on the first floor. It was past eleven now, and although the air was rather warm, the chill coming off the ocean would send shivers crawling across the blue and red Mustang's plating. As he taxied down the empty streets under the dim, flickering street lamps he stopped suddenly, feeling a cold lassitude come over him. He swayed on his landing gear as the environment all around him seemed to take on a surreal aspect of itself, as if layered over. Someone was singing, giving Ripslinger a disorienting sense of jamais vu. He felt himself floating in a void, his landing gear and wings numb and tingling as his breathing became erratic over the sense of dark shadowy creatures leering from the alleyways.

Then as suddenly as it came on it was over. Color and darkness seeped back into his surroundings, and the figures were no longer there. Ripslinger understood that the seizure had passed; until next time he was free. Free to lie in darkness and solitude and dwell unceasingly on all the things that still needed to fall into place in his quest to find and reunite with his sister. But what if his fits and visions were to increase? Perhaps even possess him altogether, so that... He started suddenly from where he was standing. The singing had not stopped. And this time there was no doubt where he recognized the whimsical, care-free melody.

"Isabelle?"

Was it not over? Was it just in his head? Nearly mad with indecision, he began to chase it anyway. It echoed and tumbled about the streets and buildings, never seeming to get any closer. The environment began to morph and become crisp again. In his blind, desperate pursuit he hadn't even noticed that he'd gone rushing into a recreational park, at least until he was checked hard before diving through a crop of thick bushes as a nose was thrust out at him, the front of an unfamiliar plane snarling and growling.

Ripslinger, finally coming out of his dementia, began to slowly back away, but then suddenly the sound of many other large things moving around him made him turn and look. Other planes were appearing out of the darkness and fog, and not one of them looked friendly. Most were a good deal smaller than himself, sport planes, apart from two Yak 11s, but he was surrounded, and they were all wearing sleeves so that he couldn't see their numbers. As the pack of planes had him cornered, another plane, a Hawker Sea Fury, larger than him, approached.

"Thought you could hide from us forever, didn't you?" his lightly gruff voice sounded. "Smart move, only appearing in gatherings for other classes. But not smart enough."

"Who are you?" Ripslinger demanded, his posture defensive but firm.

"Just a group of planes making sure that the score stays even. You would have done better to stay in that orphanage as long as you could."

"What?" Now Ripslinger lost face, frightened and confused, he repeated again, still trying to keep the fear out of his voice, "Who are you?"

"Not that it would have really mattered," the Hawker purred to the growling engines all around them, "You'll never escape us..."

The group of hostile planes advanced, and Ripslinger's fear quickly melted into offensive aggression, control surfaces raising as he bristled and moved forward in challenge. Not the reaction they were expecting, the smaller planes faltered a bit. Two of them steeled back up and moved to attack, but the cornered P-51 spotted them and snarled, the planes shying away, engines squealing shrilly as Ripslinger feigned a charge. As all the growling and revving reached a fever pitch, their leader, growing impatient, pushed them on.

"Get him!" he growled.

Despite their leader's urging, only one of the planes shot forward. Ripslinger reversed out of the range of the snapping teeth, coming back forward and around in an instant to sink his own crushingly into their back before shaking them savagely. His cohorts watched in horror as the plane screamed in agony, scattering as he was thrown at their landing gear, hydraulic fluid pouring over the grass from the terrible rend in his back as he convulsed and trembled, moaning piteously. Ripslinger let loose a ferocious roar from his engine, contra-rotating propellers spinning into a threatening blur as he prepared for more.

"Don't just stand there, _kill_ him!" roared the incredulous Sea Fury.

At this point both Yak 11s leaped forward. As Ripslinger tangled with the two smaller warbirds, the rest of the pack closed in. Outnumbered twenty to one, the blue and red plane reared and span to and fro, jaws snapping and striking out with his wings. His propeller blades were getting torn up in his desperate attempts to keep them from going for his landing gear, which the smaller planes were relentlessly targeting. The watered-down red hydraulic fluid spurted and splattered all over the grass beneath him as he was torn into, screaming through the furious roaring of his engine as he was inevitably overwhelmed and brought down. Then suddenly they stopped, moving aside and clearing a path as the Hawker Sea Fury moved forward to where Ripslinger lay, bleeding heavily and still struggling to rise.

"Pity. I'd have expected more from the son of Slingblade the Boomslang," his voice slithered.

"Fuck you!" Ripslinger spat, sending red-tinged spittle in the leader's direction, "Tell me who are now!"

"I'll ask the questions! You're in no position to threaten me. Now, you are going to tell me where your sister is, and I'll gladly ease your suffering."

Ripslinger growled lowly.

"I'm not telling you slag..."

"Have it your way then. We'll find her eventually. You can't protect her forever," the fellow warbird whispered before his nose, his voice turning sickeningly cruel as Ripslinger's face fell in sorrow and despair at his next words, "You never could..."

Looking to his underlings, they began their final advance, but just as they were about to finish him, one of them, one of the Yak 11s, shouted in surprise. They all looked to their comrade to see him being dragged backward into the darkness and mist, face desperate in terror as he screamed. He disappeared, the screams suddenly turning more shrill before being cut off. The silence was deafening as all planes stared wide-eyed into the night. Then suddenly a colossal, black shape sprang out of the darkness among them.

Ripslinger watched as the apparition darted hither and thither with an unnatural grace for its size, snapping and biting methodically at the tiny planes dashing blindly around it in panic. One by one, it was catching them, grabbing them it it's jaws and with a quick bite snuffing out their life. He could barely make out the long, thin, angular shape in the dark, it's piercing red eyes glowing with an odd light that gave no light as it's engines idled and coughed shimmering embers.

 _No... That's not possible! The Blackbirds are extinct!_ were the thoughts running through Ripslinger's mind, witnessing the carnage as he finally struggled to his landing gear. It had caught the other Yak 11, jaws in his back as it dragged him back closer before ripping the hapless plane open, tearing out fluid-coated parts and wires and other innards hanging from it's maw. The Hawker Sea Fury, gaping at the spectacle, frozen in shock and fear was an easy target as the demon jet advanced upon him, and in desperation met it half-way, teeth bared and engine snarling.

"Come back! Come back, you cowards!" his raging screams could be heard as the remaining planes retreated completely, "Come back and help me kill this thing!"

With a quick snap of it's body, the creature finished him off. Ripslinger watched as it tipped it's nose back up, shaking some of the hydraulic fluid away that now covered and dripped glistening from nearly the whole front of it's frame. Then it turned it's attention to the wounded, shaking, terrified P-51. As the nightmare began moving toward him, he began to cry, tears mixing in with the sickly red fluid that smeared his own body. This was it. It was coming for him now. He was going to die. He shut his eyes tight, more tears squeezing out of them. He'd failed her.

 _I'm sorry, Isabelle..._

The monster nearly upon him, his faculties could stand no more and he fainted, collapsing to the ground from fear, exhaustion, and fluid loss, as if to save himself from what was surely going to be a gruesome death. The black creature looked down upon him through no less fierce but soft eyes as it stopped just in front of him. It gave an odd, low trilling sound and chuffed softly. Then it lowered the front of its body down to Ripslinger's, and extending it's tongue, slowly licked away the hydraulic fluid and tears from his cheek. Nestling down closer with the much smaller, unconscious plane, it continued licking over the rest of him, gently and tenderly cleaning the fluids from his wounds.

The next morning, Ripslinger sprang awake in bed in his hotel room. Sobbing for breath, he scrabbled upward, checking himself. There were no wounds. No dents. He went over in front of the large, mirrored closet. Nothing. It was like they never were, though he could surely feel exactly where all had been. Confused and disoriented, he jumped as the radio crackled up with Roy's voice. Later, at Antech's headquarters, Ripslinger stood with the Antin brothers signing contracts. He'd had a few more items to add to his terms that he'd just thought of.

"I want to meet with your design team immediately to discuss a few things, namely the construction of a new type of propeller blade," Kenny could hear him saying as he stood at the far end of the room, fresh lacquer gleaming blue and red off of his frame, "And now, about your current security standards..."

* * *

 _Well here it is. The first part in a short series for my next project. Things will be revealed here that weren't already in If You Tame Me, so hopefully if you can stand the horrible depressiveness of this whole story, it will make a lot more sense as to why Ripslinger is the way he is when you see him in the film and in If You Tame Me. Poor Kenny..._


	2. Cry Little Sister

**Rated PG-13 for Language**

XXxx

Ripslinger gave a testing start of his engine, feeling the weight of his new propeller blades and how cleanly they span. He revved his engine up a few times with varying throttle. He would need to get in the air to really test them, but they felt wonderful so far. Beautifully hydro-dipped to conceal the mirco-serrated, titanium-reinforced leading edges, and with a lower profile than the old ones made the rest of him look just that much sharper as well as he admired himself in the mirror.

"Well," said Antech's chief design engineer expectantly, but still as if he knew what the answer was, "What do you think?"

"Very nice. Thank you, Jeffrey," the P-51 replied, not taking his eyes off of himself.

"Good. They were quite the challenge, given your demands on the specifications," the slate gray forklift went on, then choosing his words carefully, "You, ah... asked for some very unusual things. Any reasoning behind it all?"

"Oh," Ripslinger began, his voice almost whimsical, "in case of the unexpected. That being said, Jeffrey," and at this the blue and red plane finally turned, all traces of whimsy gone from his voice as it was replaced by the cold steel edge of a blade, "These are not to go outside of Antech. At least not the real ones; we can market knock-offs. Chrysler knows everyone will want a set for themselves after I start racing, but the specifications for the original Sky Slicer die with you and me. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Jeffrey confirmed, a bit breathlessly before quickly regaining his composure, "Yes, of course, sir. You have my word."

The Mustang stared after the forklift as he took his leave, then turned slightly as he heard Sid call for him.

"Ripslinger," the midnight blue Lexus LS400 called, coming around to a stop in front of him. "You look stupendous, and you're about to get even more so. You'll be happy to know that we have got your number, and are lining up your first set of races as we speak."

"Good. When will I be able to fly?"

"Shortly, shortly," Sid assured, "It wasn't easy, but we managed to get you into a few local races coming up."

Ripslinger glanced over the itinerary, his expression turning to distaste.

"These are all petty races."

"Yes, I know that," Sid covered entreatingly, "But most rookies coming out onto the scene will still have been monitored and known to some degree before they were even born. You can't expect to start out at the top when you've come out of nowhere."

"This is so demeaning... If my wins in Mexico counted I would have a Champion title already," the Mustang growled, "There weren't _any_ more strings you could pull?"

"Not this time," the Lexus affirmed solidly, "And these races shouldn't be considered petty. We need to be using this time to build up an image, and besides, with your ability it won't take you long at all to work your way up to where you belong. Even we have to draw a line when it comes to racing that's so unregulated that it allows planes to fly without so much as a number to their person. Speaking of which..."

He pulled out a few sheets of paper, final concepts of the placement and style of Ripslinger's racing number. The checker-marked plane l looked them over, then checked ever so slightly upon seeing the number that was to grace his frame.

"I admit, it's not a number most would prefer racing under," Sid conceded, "but beggars can't exactly be choosers when it comes to forging registrations. I know how superstitious racers are. If you insist we can try to get you a different number, but it will delay-"

"No," Ripslinger cut off the deep blue sedan abruptly, his olive-colored eyes narrowed in thoughtful consideration, "I like it. It's... fitting..."

"Bad news for your competition, eh?" and the Lexus laughed. "There's a boy; I like your thinking! So which one of these warning colors would you prefer adorning you?"

"This one," the blue and red plane replied, pushing one of the concepts toward Sid.

"Same colors?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Let's get you dressed."

A week later, the number "13", bold, angular graphics gleaming green outlined in yellow, shown on his flanks and the dorsal aspect of his left wing. They were back in Santa Monica for the first of several races. They were all Minor League; Sweepstakes races used to sort out the men from the boys before they could move on to the Majors, who's wins were worth points toward titles. The purses for these races were peanuts compared to what could be had in Major wins. And that wasn't the only thing that Ripslinger was currently raging about.

"I'm not going to do it, Roy," the P-51 griped, continuing before the forest green Lexus could speak, "I'm not gonna to do it! I just wanna fucking race!"

"Now, Ripslinger, remember what we told you before; you are a complete unknown in this business," Roy explained calmly, to which Ripslinger's engine snarled irritably as he wheeled away and started pacing, fuming. "A wild card. All these other racers here, especially the ones with pedigrees, will have practically been sponsored before they were even born. They have a huge head-start over you and you need to be doing everything possible to get everyone's attention if you're going to have any sponsorship deals of your own, _you_ know that."

"No, I don't care! _I'm_ the one that has to be up in the air keeping everyone off my tail! I don't want any of this fucking mystique or parading around! I'm just want to go up there, win my races, and make money. I don't want any of this other slag!"

Meanwhile, all over the pits, the other racers are getting prepared for the race; shined, polished, last minute tweaks and inspections on their engines as they all tuck in to one last little bit of oil before going up. But then they all turn their noses toward the sight of a stranger; a newcomer draped in a massive, glossy black silk sheet. Acid green, wickedly lacy lettering spelled out, simply, "Number 13" on either side of the great length of fabric with the Antech Inc logo on the trailing end. They had all heard rumors that the company had finally come into some new talent as the mystery plane was led by two sedans and followed by a red and blue forklift bearing the same number and logo.

Racegoers and competitors alike stare as the stranger is led into the staging area, but then stops dead, landing gear rigid, before actually entering. With some gentle urging and prodding unseen by the crowd, it crosses the threshold. The plane stands still again, looking around at the crowds of vehicles of all types, makes and models staring back in curious consideration.

"Come on," Sid hissed enthusiastically at Ripslinger's left side, "give 'em a roar. Let them hear that engine, and tremble!"

"I told you I'm not doing it," growled the P-51.

"Come on, Rip, please," the midnight sedan urged, "You've got to make a show of it if you want to get any real standing in this business."

"No. Now take this damn thing off me and let's just get this over with so I can race."

With that, Roy produced something akin to a stun gun from a hub cap, leaned up, and jabbed it hard into Ripslinger's flank. A snarl exploded from his engine and he reared up, angrily spinning around so quickly toward the source of his pain that the shroud was thrown off as his engine roared in deafening fury. If the racers and spectators had been gawking before, they were now openly staring in wide-eyed wonder, breathless remarks of "what a plane!" escaping their lips as his competition looks on, whispering among themselves while trying to hide their apprehension.

"That got their attention alright," Sid murmured to his brother as both sedans grinned.

Ripslinger fumed in indignation and embarrassment as he was then led out onto the track's runway. If he didn't need those two god-forsaken cars so badly he would have greatly relished in killing them both right then and there for that. Growling, he shook it off with a snort. _Isabelle... Remember Isabelle..._

Meanwhile, Kenny, pulling the irate Mustang, was himself shaking off the last of the adrenalized trembling and numbness of the last few minutes. Sid and Roy were laughing, but they had no idea how close they had just come to death. No one in that whole staging area knew how close they all came to being slaughtered, but Kenny did. He had felt it. Very clearly, suddenly, out of the usual, unsettling static, he felt an unassailable wave of rage and deep, festering, tormented frustration wash over him that now that he had felt it realized had always been there. And they'd been there for a long time. How could anyone not feel that? He thought enviously. The forklift had cursed his "gift" for a very long time, but now more than ever. And he was to be saddled with this psychotic malcontent? To be whatever, wherever, and whenever he needed of him, as Sid and Roy had so eloquently put it? He could hear the P-51's engine still snorting and fluttering harshly with barely contained rage right behind him. Kenny only continued to stare stoically ahead as he lined Ripslinger up in position along the other racers, unhooking himself and continuing his dignified pace back to the pits despite wanting to faint with relief to get away.

Ripslinger stood, lined up eight abreast with the other racers now, and he eyed them from the corner of his eye as they waited for the signal to start their engines, sizing them up. This particular heat was all Mustangs, like he, and it was obvious that he was the youngest one here. The others were all a few years older than himself, and while they were all roughly the same size due to Ripslinger being larger for his age, their frames were more or less fully developed, and they were all sleek and powerful. Fine examples of their kind, and yet everyone's eyes were on the newcomer.

Nearly everyone there knew who the other racers were, the more fanatic among them from the time their parents announced they were expecting, but no one knew who the red and blue P-51 with the sharp, contra-rotating propellers was. It was plain to be seen that he himself was of course of exemplary parentage, but who? Who was this nameless, mystery plane? Looking to the LED screen showing the roster for the race, they were only given the moniker "Number 13". Then the race announcer's magnified voice when blaring out over the track, "Racers! Start your engines!"

Everyone paid close attention to the stranger, easily being able to distinguish his engine start out of the din of the others. The energized whirring before the hearty sound of the engine beginning to turn over, quickly followed by a high-pitched whining and whooshing from the exhausts a second before the engine thundered up into a roaring rev as his propellers span into a blur. Then one by one, they taxied off for the runway, and took off. No one had noticed a flash of silver caught in the sun glinting from Ripslinger's left landing gear as it was retracted. Once the last plane was in the air, they took up their positions behind the T-38 serving as their pace plane. The starting point rushing up ever closer, the racers braced themselves calculating the right time to gun their engines once released to the course.  
The Shooting Star peeled away, and Ripslinger had to bite back a gasp as he was checked by the other racers out ahead of him shooting away faster than expected. The slip nearly caused a few that happened to be behind him to pass him up.

Right. He wasn't in Tijuana anymore. He wasn't racing against planes that were racing just to eat, their less-than-ideal body conditions and conformation doing nothing to keep them out of such an unregulated faction of the sport. These planes were in top condition, and had been groomed for the sport from the moment they were able to start flying with the utmost precision and care, having nothing but the best of everything with their teams behind them supporting them. Until now, Ripslinger had been on his own, but once recovering from the initial shock, his underestimation had been the last mistake he made as he adjusted his tactics accordingly. His competitors may have had all of the best fuels and supplements and gear and mechanics, but they were all still novices, and Ripslinger was not. The rest of the race went off without a hitch after deftly nipping his way up into first place, and the crowds below had grown louder and louder with every second of distance he continued to gain with each lap. It was like nothing any of them had ever seen, and the spectacle had indeed nabbed him the Aeroflow sponsorship, of who's reps had come over from Australia and had just happened to be in the stands during Ripslinger's memorable unveiling, and after that performance during the race were sold. Sid and Roy were grinning from blinker to blinker.

And so it went. Race after race, location after location, being paraded around and then performing unfathomable acts of power and endurance. And, despite all the growing attention that he quickly garnered, feeling more and more like some circus animal than an A-list air racer. Not that the notoriety displeased him. After that first victory, being surrounded by a considerable crowd of impressed and curious spectators asking him all sorts of ridiculous questions, he no longer needed any "encouragement" to play along, showing off that almost eerie charisma that had so captivated Sid and Roy when they first saw him. No matter how the crowds grew in the coming races after each subsequent win, he would work them with delicate finesse and expertise, just _playing_ with his audience like they were all his lovers and he couldn't get enough of them, because he knew they couldn't get enough of him. He could read them all, and would seamlessly change like a chameleon into whatever he knew would tickle their fancy in him the most. His favorite thing was to watch his female fans in particular, just falling all over themselves at his feigned boredom just to be the thing that captured his interest.

Only Kenny knew better. Only he ever saw the face that no one else did. Even Sid and Roy, who only saw dollar signs by now as they shrieked and screamed such things as "Come on! Go, you freak of nature, go!" and the like with such glee from their box as their benefactor went roaring overhead by himself, so far ahead of the others. The now blue and red forklift had hoped against all hope that the Mustang couldn't hear any of it over the noise of seven other aircraft engines. Not that Kenny thought that either of them didn't deserve whatever might come; they were taking advantage of him just as much as the checker-marked plane was taking them all for what they were worth. It was his real face that the pittie saw after his seventh straight victory. With another sponsor earned, one more win and he'd be racing in the major leagues. It had been such a point of contempt with Ripslinger, that he should be racing with such novices in the minors when he could be competing with champions of the like he knew he was. He had gotten what he wanted now in record time, and yet he wore that face.  
Ripslinger had come trudging into the Antech tents that evening, which were all interconnected and felt more like a compound, fresh out of the winner's circle after entertaining his biggest crowd of fans yet, his mouth in that classic, down-turned line with his brow furrowed down in somber, dutiful bitterness. His cold, olive-colored eyes only stared ahead as Kenny watched him go past, nearly brushing him with a wingtip, giving no acknowledgment to the forklift as he went straight back to his quarters. Kenny was used to such interactions, if that was what you wanted to call them. What was this guy's problem? You'd think he'd be happy. But Kenny only went into his own part of the tent.

Ripslinger, once fully inside, went over to his plush sleeping mat, laying down roughly with a soft moan from his engine that transitioned into a chuff among the dozens of pillows and cushions of all shapes and sizes. He sighed, closing his eyes and stroking and nuzzling himself into all of them. Alone... he was so lonely... so lonely that it hurt. He wanted help. He needed Comfort. Support. But he couldn't have it from any of these people. He only wanted her. She could make it go away. Isabelle always knew how to make him feel better when he was feeling troubled. The P-51 pulled one of the larger pillows closer to him. He nuzzled into it, breathing deeply, before giving it a few gentle, long licks which turned into a light grasping and squeezing in his jaws as a wave of frustration bubbled up through him. Overcome with loneliness in his need, before he knew it or could stop himself, his engine gave out a short contact call, something that only proplings make, and he startled himself with the noise that came out. It was such a far-cry from the sound that he used to make when he was young and couldn't find his siblings, and a stinging reminder of how much time had passed since he'd made his promise. And yet he called again, only the noise broke, becoming more drawn out and mournful. No one answered back, but it did not go unheard, other racers and planes and other vehicles looking around in confusion for it's source. And they were not alone. Kenny, his quarters next door to Ripslinger's, could not help but know where it was coming from as he sat up awake, his face awash softly in disturbed shock and questioning sympathy at what he was feeling and hearing.

XXxx

No less than a week later, said race was upon them. Ripslinger was in his part of the pits, fresh team of pitties attending to his preparation under Kenny's orders. They all fiddled around under his wings and tail-fins, making whatever tweaks and adjustments were needed, but no one dared touch his engine. Multiple times Sid and Roy had taken turns urging Ripslinger to allow them to work on his engine, and every time the answer had remained a stiff, "It doesn't _need_ any adjustments. It doesn't need any _tightening_. If there were any such improvements to be made, I'd tell you." The poor pitties were apt to agree, having risked losing a fork enough times to not want to be near an area so close to the Mustang's teeth and propeller blades; it became a regular thing to draw straws as to who got to work the more preferable jobs on the other end of the plane.

His unwillingness to let anyone near his engine would not be the only point of contention on this day. He had looked up, mid-sip from a can of oil, when he noticed something new on his fuel cart as Kenny rolled it over and pushed it up behind his left wing. He couldn't read exactly what it was, but recognized the little white wing logo of Icarus Labratories, his recently acquired sponsor.

"What is that?" he asked, his tone rather short.

"It's a fuel additive," Roy answered, unfazed and used to Ripslinger's bedside manner toward those he actually worked with by now.

"What for?" he demanded in the same tone, and then before the Lexus could even begin to explain what it was, snapping, "Take it away."

Kenny rolled his eyes, shaking his front. _And here we go._ He went about supervising the crew, leaving the bottle where it was.

"Ripslinger, if you're going take priority of a sponsor, at least take advantage and actually use their products," Roy continued, "Supernova is Icarus Laboratories' newest performance enhancer; you have the privilege of being the first to be able to use it."

"I don't need it."

"Oh, come on, Rip, this is the _Unlimited_ Class we're in. That means unlimited. _Everybody_ uses fuel additives; I dare say everyone you'll be racing against today will definitely be using them knowing that you'll be among them."

"Well maybe _they_ need them to win, but I don't," asserted the P-51, his voice smoothly intense.

"Think of it," pressed Roy, "This is your last race in the minor leagues; we know you're going to win. Wouldn't you like to go out with a bang? You're the fastest plane in the minor leagues. If you can fly that fast without being on any performance enhancers, think of how fast you'll fly with them. Imagine the stir it will cause when you win this last race a full lap ahead of everyone. That'll send a ripple through the major leagues, won't it?"

Ripslinger stared at the forest green sedan with that steely gaze of his, considering his words. He had never used fuel additives of any kind, mostly because while racing for himself in Tijuana, he didn't have access to any, but had continued not to use them after being signed on to Antech. It was obvious by then that he didn't need any of that stuff to win, so why bother? But the thought of the attention that such a display as Roy spoke of would garner, not to mention the money from more sponsors begging to have his face behind their products intrigued him.

"…As you wish," was all he said. _If it gets me my sister back any faster…_

"Great! Kenny?"

The blue and red forklift nodded, turning toward the cart. Picking the bottle of Supernova up, he looked at the smaller print under the bold trade name letters.

"Oxyphendexamine". Sounded like pretty gnarly stuff. He sighed. _Great indeed._ Unlimited racers could be high-strung and difficult to handle enough on their own without being hopped up on fuel additives half the year. Their own P-51 was going to be just that much more of a treat to work with. He turned to his teammates.  
"Okay, put this in first, then fuel him."

Ripslinger was compliant, sitting still for them. He felt nothing out of the ordinary as they added the additive and then the fuel directly into his tanks, and continued to do so, at least until he started his engine after being led out onto the track. It roared up with his usual pomp, but as it did so he immediately felt a rush as his RPMs abruptly jolted up, feeling a ringing in his ears. Then, slowly, a dull but increasing heat slowly bloomed in his engine, and in a chain reaction continued to spread throughout his whole frame, until he felt very feverish all over. At first it had felt almost pleasant, but had soon started tap-dancing around the borders of uncomfortable. As the ringing wore off, he began to pant, his breaths increasing as he tried to cool himself and keep up with the increased combustion in his engine. As he turned to taxi for the runway, the environment had become very bright, everything in it super-defined. A hyper-realistic version of itself, but it was more disorienting than anything. He shouldn't fly like this. This was a bad idea; they should have tested it out first. Even he knew that to continue would be putting himself at risk for an accident, but if he forfeited this race, he might lose his sponsors, and it would delay him in achieving his goal by a considerable amount. He couldn't have that, and so he took off.

Ripslinger was up and had reached altitude before he even knew it. It had felt amazing. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all? They were released to the course, and he went blasting away over the canopies of his competitors. The red and blue Mustang had just been able to see how they started, wings waggling, as he shot out ahead of them. He could hear their engines roar as they gunned it behind him, and yet the sound was still fading away. This race would be over in no time. Within three laps, he was already well on his way to being a full lap ahead. And he was loving it. His reflexes, his controls were responding instantaneously. Another two laps and he had passed up two of the trailing racers. He felt invincible. It was as if every component of his biology was running at ten times capacity, and it was excruciatingly painful as it was euphoric.

Too hot. He was getting too hot. His mind was racing a million miles a minute and he could not get it to stay solid nor still. The heat radiating off of his engine shimmered and his vision swam with it, and however hard and fast he panted, it was no longer making a difference. All the oxygen he was taking in was being burned off by his engine before it could be used to cool it as well, and with hardly any left over for himself. Self-preserving instinct was overpowering his high now, and Ripslinger was beginning to panic. His engine was functioning at an unsustainable capacity; whether he crashed or not, engine failure was imminent if he kept this up. He would die. Two more laps. He only had to make it through two more laps.

Kenny watched from the ground, a little off to the side from Sid and Roy, who were celebrating another sure victory. It wasn't like it was premature; it was obvious that Ripslinger was going to win, again. But he couldn't help but feel that something wasn't right. The blue and red pittie raised his binoculars again as Ripslinger went around the far turn on his last lap. The P-51 had been panting very hard the entire time he'd been up, and even though he was flying quite well, from the desperate expression on his face now, it was apparent that things weren't what they seemed. He crossed the finish line, and the way he peeled away from the track to allow the others to finish only solidified Kenny's suspicions. The movement was abrupt; exaggerated. He lowered the binoculars.

"Something's wrong," he said, raising his voice a bit to address the two sedans, but they appeared not to hear.

The very instant that Ripslinger had been officiated the winner of the race, he descended. Kenny watched him land. The landing was quite rough. The checker-marked Mustang rolled to a stop, his nose drooping down low as he sagged into his landing gear, lips pulled back from his teeth and his tongue hanging as he panted through a wide-open mouth. Now Sid and Roy were silent and still, all three vehicles watching as their star performer appeared to gag. Then he swayed, wobbling on his landing gear, before collapsing.

" _Ooh_ , for fuck's sake, no!" Sid cried, signaling to the rest of the crew behind him, "Come on!"

Kenny had already been speeding out onto the track as announcers were calling for caution to the other racers and for ambulance and fire to report. He moved as if compelled. He didn't know why. Perhaps he had taken a certain amount of pity upon him after that night he heard him making those awful noises, even if it were still reserved. How could he not, after that he felt radiating out from the racer after each cry? He was feeling those same feelings now the closer he got to him, growing more and more clear. It was nothing like he'd ever felt, or was even expecting to feel, from this plane. As he reached his side, the forklift recoiled from the extreme heat radiating off of Ripslinger's engine as smoke gently poured from it, smelling the burnt oil.

"Ripslinger?" Kenny called to him.

The Mustang gave no response, no acknowledgment that the pittie was there. His eyes were wide open, glazed over and wild with agony and panic as they darted back and forth as if he were in a state of vertigo. His frame shook and trembled, his sides heaving with his frantic but labored gasping, like a fish. Kenny looked at how Ripslinger drooled, his grayish, lavender-purple tongue laid out on the asphalt, and he wasn't cursing the fact that his tongue and gums were already normally a darker color; he already knew that the checker-marked plane wasn't getting enough oxygen. Engine hissing and gurgling, he tried feebly to rise, ultimately failing and laying back down again, continuing his labored panting. Sid and Roy were being of absolutely no help, beside themselves and they shouted and shrieked orders and obscenities. Kenny was about to ask track security to have them removed when he heard Ripslinger let out a weak whimper.

"Isabelle..."

Then the forklift checked softly as Ripslinger went completely still.

" _No..._ " Kenny whispered softly.

Ripslinger was making more and more sense to him now. All of his odd behavior, the things he was putting up with, putting himself through. He looked over to the delicate silver charm bracelet fixed around his left landing gear just above the wheel. "Per aspera ad astra". Kenny shook his front in sympathetic disbelief. The P-51 had stopped breathing, but his matching pittie could still feel him. Little snippets of feelings that were becoming garbled again. Sadness. Failure. Regret. He felt himself moving again, slowly approaching Ripslnger's side, and gently placing both of his tines against him. If Ripslinger didn't recover adequately and make it to the Winner's Circle, than by the rules of the race, the win would be forfeited to the second place winner. He heard nothing. Nothing of the crowd, nothing of the sirens and commotion all around them. Nothing of Sid and Roy in their despair as they watched their cash cow dying in front of them.

"Come on, Rip," he whispered. "You have to get up; don't quit now. Or you'll all be lost forever. You must get up."

Somewhere, far away, a young P-51 sits. The grass is cool and bright, the wind and sun are soft and pleasant. A smaller P-51 approaches, bowing down playfully on her landing gear. The bigger one watches as she feigns and prances around him, then joins her. The two proplings chase each other around, flashing in the sun. They are happy. Then they stop. The smaller Mustang approaches, smiling, and gives the larger one a small kiss near the corner of his mouth, and very clearly, he hears her voice.

 _"Wake up Number Thirteen."_

Ripslinger's eyes fly open as he pulls in a powerful gasp, suddenly leaping up and staggering to his landing gear, scaring the living daylights out of everyone around them. His next immediate action was to heave up what was left of the fuel in his tanks, which made him feel immensely better in a matter of moments after doing so, although he was still incredibly weak. He nearly went back down, but Kenny was there, and the forklift quickly darted in under him, holding him up with all his might. His engine still hissed and gurgled, making a distinctly unsettling rattling sort of sound as he continued to drool profusely.

"Easy Rip," Kenny grunted. "Easy..."

He heard Kenny, but he couldn't make himself respond. His whole body, especially his head, was wracked with horrible pain. He could barely think. Until he slowly looked around and saw Sid and Roy, looking greatly shaken and dumbstruck.

"The next time I tell you..." he growled breathlessly, "...that I don't need something... Just get me to the Winner's Circle..." He tried to move, but his wheels wouldn't obey him, his movements stuttering and jerky. "Ugh, help me, rust you!"

They all stood, Sid and Roy on either side under his wings, Kenny at his tail, for pictures and meetings with the press in the Winner's Circle, smiling like usual and trying desperately not to look too obvious in that they were physically holding him up as Ripslinger spoke to one news anchor or fan or another. He wasn't going to let the fact that he was practically dead for a little bit earlier deter him from his usual, post-win schmoozing and adulation. Kenny sighed in relief, although it wasn't enough to keep him from feeling horribly, sickeningly guilty.


	3. Must Come Down

The flight back to headquarters was tense. After the post-win interviews were over and they'd gotten back to the tents, Ripslinger had simply fallen as soon as he'd got his tail through the flaps, unable to stand any longer. He drooled and foamed at the mouth, gasping deep, heavy breaths that were punctuated by gagging and these odd little coughs that seemed to emanate from both his throat and exhausts simultaneously. While Ripslinger's vital signs had eventually gone down to normal limits, albeit the high side of normal, he remained quite lethargic and very weak. He was currently laid out on a sleeping mat aboard the plane, conscious but not moving save for blinking tiredly. Kenny, who had been glued to his side since his initial collapse on the track, kept one of his forks against the side of the Mustang's nose, ready to gently prod him awake should his eyes stay closed. Until they got him to Porter and were given the clear from him, Ripslinger would not be allowed to sleep. Luckily for the pittie, given Ripslinger's current condition, Kenny didn't have to fear any repercussions for the impertinence. The private plane that they'd booked was given strict instructions that the short flight home be as gentle as possible, and the skilled carrier had touched down like a feather. Kenny tucked that away for later reference, hoping to recruit this plane to be their own exclusive tourer. For now, they had a nearly five-ton P-51 to move.

"Alright, Rip, let's go. Easy now..." Kenny coached gently as his charge attempted to rise, stopping him once he eventually got to his wheels, as the racer had started panting heavily again in the effort. "Okay stop, let's take a breather before we move."

Aircraft often panted when their engines were overtaxed and/or getting a little hot, but prolonged open-mouth panting was regarded with the utmost seriousness, as the ease and swiftness in which planes could succumb to respiratory ailments was well documented. Kenny had prompted Ripslinger to lean down a bit and allow the forklift to lift his lip so that he could see his tongue and gums. Although he was no longer open-mouth panting by this point, inspection of the gums lining the sharp, interlocking rear teeth revealed them to be more of a dull, tacky blue-gray than the usual rich purple-lavender, and so Kenny waited for them to brighten up some before continuing to the Antech building's medical wing. He was uncharacteristically compliant; a very obvious sign that they were dealing with a very sick Ripslinger. Guided by his prop by Kenny, after much stopping and starting they finally made it to Porter, who had already been alerted to the P-51's condition and had already prepared a heavy rubber mat that he directed Kenny to lead him to.

"He's fine, not great of course, but fine so long as he's not moving, but the very instant he moves at all he starts turning blue," the red and blue pittie explained to Porter.

"Well at any rate this is as clear a case of overdose as can be," Porter said, "His vomiting back on the track's evacuated his tanks more or less, so at least he can't absorb any more, but there's enough still free-floating in his system to where it'll just keep re-absorbing and re-toxifying instead of excreting it. We're going to have to a full-system flush to completely clear him out, but as the additive is binding to all the oxygen he takes in, whatever he has left will go out with it, so it's going to be a very delicate balancing act to keep him anesthetized while still maintaining a high oxygen flow."

"You hear that, Rip?" Kenny asked, turning back to the prostrate plane, who didn't respond.

He lifted his nose, shifting himself a bit before falling back down, breathing heavily through his intakes. His eyes had become glazed over again as he continued to look around, pupils dilated. He acted like he couldn't see, or at the very least was hallucinating, as his eyes would occasionally focus, but on seemingly nothing.

"Yeah he's out of it. I think he's re-toxifying right now actually," said Kenny as he watched him.

"Yes, well, we better get to work then," said Porter, then they both froze as they heard Ripslinger speaking weakly.

"Isabelle... Where..."

The mechanic had checked slightly and then looked to Kenny, who only returned an unreadable stare, yet there passed an understanding between forklifts in that moment, and then Porter simply went about referencing and preparing the appropriate drugs. When his MAs brought out and assembled all the equipment, Kenny stayed at Ripslinger's nose, as the P-51 seemed to become agitated at the movement and noise, continuing his feverish muttering.

"Leave us alone... Leave us alone, I can take care of her... You're scaring her! Don't scare her!"

He suddenly tried to rise, and Kenny pulled him back down by his props.

"Hey, hey!" Kenny grunted, patting the side of his nose firmly as he held him in an effort to keep the much larger plane calm and try to break him of whatever fit he was in, but to no avail.

"Leave us alone... I can take care of her..." Ripslinger moaned again, still trying feebly to get up.

"Rip, stop- Oof! You're okay," Kenny tried to sooth, grunting a bit at a particularly strong bump from the delirious Mustang, who seemed to be oblivious to the red and blue forklift's voice.

"Hey, Porter?" Kenny called, already starting to feel a faint strain in his servos and hydraulics, "Are you guys almost set up yet? There's only so much I can do if he starts to act up more than he already is."

"Yeah we're ready, let's go ahead and get him prepped now," the heavier forklift replied, turning to his staff. "Kenny, you stay at the business end, if you please."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." the pittie muttered resignedly as he braced himself.

The other forklifts positioned themselves at Ripslinger's wings and tail, which the checker marked plane apparently did not appreciate, finally seeming to react to his immediate environment.

"No... Get... off of me!"

"Hey," Kenny grunted, having to really put his weight into it now, "You're okay Rip. We're trying to help you. We're gonna make you feel better, okay?"

"Can't do this... Can't leave her alone..."

While the group of forklifts were more or less succeeding in keeping the P-51 still, he took no heed of any of their words or gestures of comfort. Kenny could not rightly tell whether he was coming or going, but at least soon he would be well unaware of whatever state he was in. Ripslinger had flinched, trying to rear away as the anesthetic/oxygen and waste-gas hoses were hooked to his intakes and exhausts, respectively, and turned on.

"That's it, Rip. Here comes the oxygen. There you go, breathe deep," Kenny coached, rubbing a tine against the side of Ripslinger's nose.

He appeared to actually calm down somewhat, his body relaxing and his breaths coming in less frantic with the introduction of the oxygen. However, it was not to last. While precautions had been taken to keep the oxygen output as low as possible to provide adequate saturation without agitating his condition, it was still enough for the residual additive remaining in his system to re-ignite with. Lulled into a false sense of security when Ripslinger had seemed to succumb, they were all figuratively, and some of them literally, thrown for a loop when he'd suddenly surged up, thrashing and struggling. The forklifts that had been knocked away had immediately dove back in, practically leaping atop the plane, and even Porter had joined in, as by the time they had Ripslinger under control again, he had already ripped out a few of the hoses and nearly knocked over the anesthesia machine.

"Get off me! Leave her alone! You'll kill her!" Ripslinger roared as he struggled. "No! You can't take her! You'll kill her! YOU'LL KILL HER!"

"Easy, Ripslinger! Easy, Son!" Porter called over all the crashing and snarling, shouting to his assistants, "The straps! Tie him down!"

"Rip, calm down, it's okay! It's me! It's me, Kenny!" shouted the forklift, trying in vain to break the plane from his hallucinations, but once Ripslinger caught sight of the straps, angry panic became full-blown hysteria.

"No! No, not again! Get off me!" he shrieked, eyes wild in utter terror and desperation, "No, don't take me to the back room! Don't put me in the dark! Please! Not the dark! Let me go!"

As more and more straps were fastened down over his wings, tail, and fuselage, he began to cry. Kenny could not recall the word "please" ever being uttered from Ripslinger's mouth, and he held him tighter, pressing the side of his face against him, stroking and shushing as the Mustang continuing to wail his protests in anguish.

"Nooooo..." the blue and red plane moaned sorrowfully as he felt the prick of a faster-acting sedative being introduced to his system, his frame trembling as he began to sob.

Once Ripslinger was finally fully anesthetized, the rest of the procedure was completely uneventful, apart from one small incident where he had briefly woken as they were performing the orogastric portion of the lavage. Alerted by him squirming lethargically, they had hurriedly reduced the oxygen content of the gas as he started to bite down on the tough, heavy tubing down his throat after gagging when he'd tried to swallow. Simultaneous drainage and infusion of vital fluids was continued until they ran out clean. The procedure completed, Ripslinger was gently lifted onto a flatbed trailer, anesthesia machine in tow, and pulled to his penthouse where he would be allowed to recover. Oxygen was raised and gas lowered in increments until he was disconnected from the gas and just on straight oxygen until that, too, was disconnected a few hours later. Kenny remained at his nose when the hoses were removed, Ripslinger gasping a bit at the light jostle before slowly lowering back down, glazed over eyes closing after a moment. The forklift frowned in great pity, saddened to see such a plane in the state he was in. He continued to rub him with a tine while Porter spoke to Sid and Roy.

"Please tell me we didn't just end his career," Roy sighed.

"End his career?" Porter scoffed, "You damn near killed him."

"Chrysler..." Sid breathed as Porter continued.

"There's evidence of expansion in several components of his engine; it should go back down given enough rest, but he was in serious danger of engine failure, and let's just hope to God that that the apparent hallucinations earlier were due to the additives and not because his brain got cooked."

"Well, if there's a bright side to all of this, at least it happened with the last race of the season," said Sid, "He'll have the next five months to recover before he starts training for next season."

"Good, because I'm ordering him grounded for three of them. He must not run his engine for any reason until I clear him. I'll be back in a few days to check on him. I'm not exactly expecting him to be up and around by then; he's had a pretty bad time, he'll likely be sleeping this off for a while. After that I want him in the shop for scans and diagnostics at two, six, and eight weeks post-incident, by which time, hopefully, he'll be cleared to start flying again."

"Right," Roy agreed, "Do we have any idea what caused this? I mean we know it was the SuperNova, but you're putting this into the category of an overdose; we only gave him the appropriate dose for his model, age, and weight."

"Well all the records he's broken in one season, his first, to boot, speak for themselves; he's no average Mustang," Porter explained to softly muttered "Yeses" and "Rights" from the two Sedans. "He preforms at such a high level already, what may be an appropriate dose for anyone else will be too much for him. I'd suggest the next time cut the dose in half. Maybe even less."

"There won't be a next time," said Roy, "He's by far the best plane we've ever had; we aren't even going to take the risk to make the same mistake again. That was too close."

"Very good then," Porter said, smiling wryly. _'Scared straight, huh?'_

"Right, well, we've got a lot of talking to do with the Board about all this," said Sid, turning to Kenny, "Stay with him."

"Yes, sir," Kenny replied, not looking away from the unconscious P-51.

XXxx

It was deathly quiet here. And so still but for the mist that lazed about through the thick fog that turned everything a blue-gray. Ripslinger wandered through it, unable to see past the dense murk all around him. No matter how far we went, he never ran into anything. Nothing but more and more fog and the mist that would billow intermittently. Then he stopped, every now and then, carrying in and out of the lethargic breeze, he could hear noises. An odd, low, buzzing hum. He looked around as the noise seemed to grow louder, and became punctuated with breathy, rattling growls, and hot, heavy hissing. He obviously was not alone, but he had no idea where to run; the sounds seemed to come from all directions at once. Then he turned around to go back the way he'd come, and then stuttered to a stop, his breath catching in his throat as he nearly ran into a large plane. The noises had not ceased, but they were not coming from this plane, and yet Ripslinger shrank back all the same. His father was standing before him in the haze, staring down at his son with a discontented frown that Ripslinger himself had been honing to perfection.

"Dad?"

The other P-51 did not not respond, only continuing to stare back at him, although his gaze did soften somewhat.

"Dad, what are you doing here? Am I dead?"

"No, but you are destroying yourself all the same," his father answered.

"What? Racing?" Ripslinger stammered, "I wasn't- this was a mistake. I won't be taking any risks like that again. I can't..."

"But you are, Rip," Slingblade pressed.

"I don't understand," said Ripslinger, "This only happened because of that crap they made me take before the race. Until now I've never had a single problem."

"Yes. I know. It's one thing to race hard, and you've been racing beautifully, son," the older P-51 continued, smiling gently before his eyes hardened back up into icy blue jewels, "But when it's just a means to an end... This obsession, your apathetic ruthlessness. You are forsaking who you are, who you were supposed to be, for this darkness instead, and the power it brings."

"But..." Ripslinger gulped, shrinking down a bit and lowering his control surfaces under his father's stare, "... I need it... It's the only thing that's keeping me alive. Giving me strength. Without it... I might... I can't let that happen. Isabelle needs me."

"Isabelle does not need to see her brother corrupted into something even worse than the creature that you turned into the last time she saw you," Slingblade angrily snarled down at his son, who only cowered down further in grief at the memory, his sister's shrieks and pleading ringing in his ears, "Feeding into these feelings does _not_ give you strength. This anger, this greed, this callousness, does not serve you. The more you turn to this demon to get what you want, the more you give it strength, and _you_ will serve _it_. Soon, there will only be a demon in that frame of yours, if you give in much more."

Ripslinger took in shallow, shaking breaths. At this moment, in the mist and the murk, he took in his father's words, and unlike any advice or suggestion that anyone had given him since this whole racing mess had started, they had been able to break through to the soft-spoken, fair, and level headed young P-51 that still remained. Where there had been no question before, now he was finally able to doubt. However, while that part of him was able to grasp those words and realize they meant, that wavering, groaning hum thrummed back up and buzzed ever louder through his thoughts. His mind replayed everything in cinematic detail, his entire path from the time he and Isabelle had been separated, and in that same moment, he saw the future, the end result for which all that careful preparation and energy had gone into, and he pushed the doubts away from him.

"I don't have time to sit here and listen to this nonsense," said Ripslinger, his tone and expression becoming steely as he rose back up. "Who are you to suddenly break in and try to lecture me when it's you who put me in this position in the first place?"

"What?" his father breathed incredulously before growling, "You know god damn well that my death was not an accident!"

"Yes!" snarled Ripslinger, matching his father's glare, "A trap that you flew right into because they knew that you just couldn't resist being the egotistical show-off that you were, and so of course everybody bought it! Imagine having to sit in an orphanage watching the news hearing over and over people saying, 'We knew he'd bite it one day!'... Now, no one talks about us. No one even remembers us..."

"Oh, my son... I'm so sorry..." Slingblade said softly, closing his eyes and bowing his nose in sorrow, "I'm so very sorry... I never wanted this..."

"Well," was Ripslinger's stony response, "I didn't either. You raced your way and you destroyed us. Now I'm going to race my way and I'm going to save what's left."

At that, Ripslinger turned away from his father, leaving him behind as he continued on through the fog.

"Ripslinger," Slingblade called after him, making to follow him, but could only go so far, yelling out in stern desperation, "Ripslinger!"

But his son kept going, neither slowing, nor looking anywhere but straight ahead until the mist stirred up and swallowed him completely.

XXxx

Three days came and went, Porter coming up from his lair, as everyone called it, to recheck Ripslinger's status. He was still out, as the mechanic already predicted, but seemed satisfied with where his vitals were at, and so took his leave. Anxious days passed as Ripslinger had yet to regain consciousness, although Kenny was in no real rush to wake him. This was the first time that he'd ever seen the plane so peaceful. No restless stirring. No yelping or moaning. Just quiet comfort of silent, all-encompassing darkness. He for one was inclined to let him sleep. There were few times where the forklift was ever not in the room with him, even sleeping in it, keeping a tine on him so that any movement would wake him. Then one day, nearly two weeks later, slipping out to confer with Sid and Roy on this or that, he'd come back in and almost jumped when Ripslinger was suddenly sitting up on his sleeping mat.

Kenny froze, seemingly in shock at the sight when the last time he saw the Mustang he was still out cold. However, Ripslinger took no notice of him. He only continued to stare blankly out of the large glass doors that opened out onto the balcony. Recovering from his bemusement, the red and blue pittie slowly approached him.

"Ripslinger?"

The plane still did not respond right away, looking down at the floor after a moment, then finally turning toward Kenny, looking slightly dazed himself.

"How are you feeling?" the forklift asked quietly, coming closer.

Ripslinger looked back down at the floor for a few seconds.

"Like I've been hit by a train," he answered somewhat hoarsely.

"I'll get you something to drink," Kenny said, starting to turn away, but Ripslinger stopped him.

"Kenny, don't leave," he suddenly blurted out, before saying more quietly, "Stay with me. Come here."

Kenny did as he was told, and Ripslinger lay back down as he came and settled down beside him. Plane and forklift sat next to one another in silence for a time, Kenny staring over at his charge, and Ripslinger staring ahead with unfocused eyes.

"Do you know what happened?" Kenny asked after several minutes.

"I don't remember much," replied Ripslinger. "I remember taking off... and being in the winner's circle. Apart from that..."

Kenny nodded, and there was more silence. Hesitantly, he reached out, just gently laying the flat of a tine against the side of Ripslinger's nose, and Ripslinger moved, shuffling closer to him. The most microscopic of smiles flitted across the forklift's face before frowning in thought.

"Who is Isabelle?" he asked in an innocuous tone, but Ripslinger did not answer, continuing to just stare off into space. "You really are him, aren't you?" Kenny continued, and now his voice had a more serious edge to it. "The son of Slingblade the Boomslang who was supposed to have died with the family in the fire."

Ripslinger was silent for a few moments more before he finally spoke.

"If you tell Sid and Roy, I'll kill you. And then I'll kill them."

Kenny nodded, expression soft as he turned his gaze ahead with Ripslinger's, giving the checker-marked P-51 a few pats that imparted an unspoken, solemn promise.

Two more weeks rest eventually saw Ripslinger back on his landing gear, so to speak. While he was able-framed enough to move around if he'd wanted, he rarely did, as per the norm when there wasn't training to be done or a race was imminent. Racing planes were very zero-to-sixty creatures for the most part, that wasn't unusual. Their default, couch potato-state when not racing was a widely known stereotype, but Ripslinger took those characteristics to new extremes. Before, Kenny had thought that he'd never seen a plane sleep so much. While his nights were rather restless, he knew, he didn't seem to have such problems sleeping during the day. Now, since his jarring epiphany, Kenny had a much better understanding of the Mustang's bizarre behavior. He could understand, now, Ripslinger's desire to be less aware of the passage of time, and the forklift was moved to deep loyalty, almost feeling bound to this plane even. Whatever his goals were in subjecting himself to this cut-throat circus that was air racing, after what it did to him, Kenny's fate now belonged to Ripslinger.

Ripslinger seemed aware of the change in their relationship as well, as he'd had Kenny now officially promoted and given the title of Crew Chief, and he never went anywhere without him. He acknowledged and even spoke to him more. No one, no matter who they were, could get private meetings with Ripslinger alone; either Kenny was permitted to be in the room, or there would be no meeting. More often than not, you couldn't even see Ripslinger anymore without talking to Kenny first. He was his own personal informant and mediator, an extra pair of eyes and ears. Answers were rarely ever immediate either. Ripslinger often consulted with Kenny in private first. Sometimes he took his advice, most of the time he did whatever he was going to do anyway, but that fact that he even considered Kenny's advice at all was quite a change.

Great care was taken when it was time to get Ripslinger in shape for the upcoming racing season. Porter had actually come outside to supervise. At first he was only allowed to taxi. Satisfied, the mechanic then cleared him for short cruising flights for the next two weeks before he could begin normal training. For all intents and purposes, Ripslinger had made a full recovery, and by the time opening day approached on May 1st, he was performing with his usual vigor.

This season would be very different. With Ripslinger's last win, he was now eligible to compete in championship races where he could earn points toward different titles. Now that he was here, Ripslinger was determined to claim the title of Champion by the end of the season, which meant that he would need to best no less than two rivals in three individual races within a total of fifteen wins. Which would be easier said than done. He wouldn't be racing against novices anymore, he would be racing against other seasoned racers. Veterans, established Champions. The average racer normally took two or three seasons to get to this point in their career; Ripslinger would be by far the youngest plane in these heats, racing against planes that were fully mature.

"Guess I need to put some effort into it now," he said as his pit crew bustled around him in his tent the day of his first race of the season.

"Want some SuperNova?" Kenny deadpanned.

"Hmm," the Mustang smiled wryly as eyed his competition, who eyed him back with barely hooded disdain.

Who was this upstart who thought he could race with the big boys? To the ones who were already titled, it was a waste of their time and effort to be racing a kid like him, and the ones who weren't would not get any points for beating someone who had yet to hold rank. _'Let's see if they'll still be sneering when I get first pole'_ , Ripslinger thought haughtily.

They weren't. They were all glaring sideways at him as they were lined up and given the go ahead to start their engines. If this nobody placed anywhere on the field, let alone first, it would be all the greater the insult to their pride, and they were snorting irritably as they were all champing at the bit to get this race started and teach this fledgling a lesson.

His biggest problems in this field were a Hawker Sea Fury named September Thunder, a son of the legendary September Fury, and two other Mustangs named Little Logic and Slammer II. Both Thunder and Logic already had Champion titles, with the former holding an additional Pylon Racer title, and if Slammer were to win this race, it would be the last Major he needed to gain the Champion title for himself.

The stakes were high, and right off the bat Ripslinger was overtaken and impeded by September Thunder and Little Logic. Forced to the outside, he found himself locked in the tight tangle of the main group when he'd tried to fight back up with them. Begrudgingly, he eased up, letting them pass. It was the only way he was going to get out of it, and, picking his way up through the field, soon found himself back with the leaders as they all came around the far turn. He lead only briefly before Thunder and Logic once again surged ahead, leaving him stuck in third place for the next few laps. Deciding it was time to give it that effort that he'd joked about in the pits, he steered carefully between the two leaders and burst back into the lead. As they came thundering down the final stretch, September Thunder and Little Logic both finally faltered while Ripslinger drove on tirelessly, taking the race by only a length and a half from the fast-closing Slammer II. He had completely upset all of the top contenders in the field, significantly boosting his rank in doing so, and earned his first point all in one fell swoop.

As soon as word spread and footage was released of his win, no one was sneering anymore. He'd more than proved himself with that first race, and within three more had gained enough rank where he was now officially on the leaderboards, winning his first major with the fourth. Interviews for television, magazines, and various tabloids, along with requests for appearances and promotions had increased ten-fold, and Ripslinger was eating it up. The more he played ball and posed nice and pretty for the cameras, the more the cash flooded in. On top of his earnings from racing, soon there was more than enough to secretly allocate a healthy sum of it to gather a team of the best private investigators he could find. After they were briefed on their objective and released, Ripslinger released an inward sigh. He would have his answers soon enough. For now, he thought, why not relax a bit and let himself enjoy the benefits of his celebrity in the interim? However, there was a slight problem.

Although he'd been getting countless invites from the clubs all long Sunset Boulevard to bring in traffic, he hated going to clubs with a passion. They were dark, crowded, noisy, stuffy, and most of the alcohol was complete swill compared to what he had on his own shelves in his penthouse. Most of the time he just went if only to get Sid and Roy off his back for a little while; he simply couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, they were terrible places to try to enjoy some company. After all, that was the whole reason that they wanted him to go out anyway. They wanted the publicity, to keep his name on everyone's tongues, and, to hopefully find a mate among the throngs of girls throwing themselves at his landing gear.

For a while, they were hoping that one of the female racers would catch his eye, as futurity rules when racers who were on different teams were expecting stated that the team of the father automatically had first dibs on any resulting young. How wonderful would that be, for their empire to turn into a dynasty? Unfortunately, while there had been plenty of calls from publicists wanting to arrange meetings, Ripslinger had refused all of them, and after so many races ran with him showing absolutely no interest, now Sid and Roy were just praying for him to get together with any girl. They could still race the offspring in the Sporting class at least, and while the pots for those races weren't nearly as lucrative as in the Unlimited class, it was better than nothing as opposed to him retiring a bachelor and having to set out yet again for a new racer the way things seemed to be going. However, now that the last objective in finding his sister was complete, Ripslinger had one less thing to focus on, and he had to admit to himself, he was lonely for some intimacy. It was Kenny that had worked out the compromise that he would go to the clubs himself to seek out and bring back a suitable candidate for their melancholy charge, which Sid and Roy reluctantly accepted since they themselves had noticed him sagging in the saddle a bit during his races. Not enough to lose, but he certainly hadn't been breaking any records.

"Fine. Just make sure whoever you bring back is a racing model, if not another P-51," Roy had grumbled.

The first girl was brought up, a foxy, confident little Nemesis NXT. Very sharp with matte midnight blue livery and sparkling blue eyes, Sid and Roy were quite pleased and thought it a good match. Ripslinger, for his part, seemed happy enough when presented with her, and she had stayed until the wee hours of the morning. However, they could not be sure whether the encounter led to any mating, as this was the one time that he'd booted Kenny out of the penthouse. She may have looked a bit ragged around the edges, but she did leave with a smile on her face. Ripslinger had spoke nothing of it, but the night had apparently just whet his appetite. Every night following he'd ask for new girls to be brought up to him. He'd wine and dine them. They'd lounge by the pool, and he'd lethargically let them push him around as they played in and out of the water, handling the girls' shenanigans like a boss. For all intents and purposes he did genuinely seem enamored with them, but then, the very instant after he'd had them in bed, to Sid and Roy's consternation, he would lose interest. Night after night, girl after girl, he never got enough, and it was apparent considering that each one would leave more worn out than the one before her.

One night, thinking that it was over as he hadn't heard anything in a while, Kenny had opened the doors to the penthouse, and was greeted by the sight of the Lancair Legacy, completely obtunded, smoking from her cowling and bleeding a significant amount of hydraulic fluid from several wounds over her back and wings. Eyes wild and glassy, she gasped like a fish for breath while Ripslinger paced nearby, agitated and emitting unusual sounds from his engine, that Kenny could only describe as possibly distress, although he was still in an obvious state of high arousal.

At this point something had to be done before someone ended up dead. Sid and Roy's solution was to have Kenny bring back two girls in the hopes that with the P-51's attentions divided between the two, they might fare better. Unfortunately, the night had ended with much the same result, so the next time they brought up three girls. While they had still ended up pretty well worn out, at least no one was outright mauled.

But why stop there? Wherever they traveled as the racing season progressed, there was never any shortage of takers, and his races were clearly benefiting, so Kenny reluctantly continued to gather up the ladies at Sid and Roy's behest, four and five at a time, for Ripslinger's pleasure and delight. Kenny had despised the way they encouraged this behavior. It was seriously no good for Ripslinger and certainly not for any of the planes they brought to him, which despite how he lavished them with all his riches beforehand, he continued to cast aside after achieving the final act. His contradictive insatiability and apathy confused everyone to no end. Kenny had scolded him once at a party that Antech had thrown when the team was home for a mid-season break. The music boomed and the alcohol flowed as the space to move around without bumping into three other people rapidly shrunk.

"Good Chrysler, Rip, you think you invited enough girls?" the forklift griped as they sat with their drinks off to the side, "All the hottest planes in LA must be up here."

"And I'll have fucked every one of them by the time this party's over," Ripslinger affirmed, not taking his appraising eyes off the crowd."

"Fuck's sake..." muttered Kenny as he shook his front, taking a sip. "You've already had more babes than Henry the VIII."

"Is that a problem?" Ripslinger asked, finally turning to look at his pittie.

"It would be if you weren't a plane," Kenny said, mentally shuddering at the thought of being overrun with thousands of Ripslingers as the checker-marked Mustang chuckled.

Truly if the plane wasn't sleeping or racing, he was fucking, and he'd determined to fuck himself straight into near paralysis in a euphoric stupor every chance he got. As long as it wasn't affecting his performance in the air, which miraculously it wasn't, Sid and Roy were all too happy to let him carry on. Kenny was also begrudgingly in agreement, although not for the same reason. Whatever kept Ripslinger distracted from the fact that it had been two months without any word from the PI team on Isabelle. While it was his order that he not be disturbed unless it was them telling him that she was found, Kenny could tell that it was wearing on him.

Two weeks later they were back on the road for the second half of the season. Ripslinger's second major was yet another for the history books, but it would pale in comparison to the finale of the Unlimited racing season, the War Thunder Conference. It was the premier race for Unlimited air racing, with the highest stakes, and the biggest pot. Most planes had to train for years to win enough races during a single season to get invited here. If Ripslinger were to win this race, not only would it be the last major he needed to be given his Championship title, but he would break the record as the youngest plane to be given a Champion title, as well as the youngest plane ever to compete in the War Thunder Conference, and the youngest plane to win. He had two rivals in this heat, a Yak-11 named Volgyr, and another P-51 named Thresher. Ripslinger wasn't worried about them, however. Who he genuinely was worried about was yet another P-51 who he would be competing with. Caesar the King.

Caesar the King was a sitting Grand Champion, a racing veteran whose only defeat in his entire career had been by Ripslinger's own father, breaking his streak and robbing him of the record for it. Like Ripslinger, he was large for a P-51, and though he was much older, was still blisteringly fast and powerful, and so he was not at all about to underestimate this plane. Likewise, Caesar was not about to underestimate him. He had been on the entire air racing world's radar for a long while now, and after he'd seen footage of one of his races, he had been watching this Number 13 very carefully. The younger P-51 looked up as the older plane approached him.

"Caesar the King," Ripslinger acknowledged, "What an honor it is."

Caesar was silent for at time, simply staring him down with intense consideration before finally speaking.

"Can you see them, boy," he said, motioning to their competitors in their pits, "You and I both know that they are nothing; it is only I that you will be racing against. But you were defeated even before you began, pretending to be someone else. Your façade will slow you down now. I'll beat you at last."

"Hmm," Ripslinger frowned haughtily, "I'll see you on the track then."

He turned to leave, taxiing a short ways before Caesar called out again.

"I know you."

Ripslinger stopped dead, then slowly turned to the side, eyeing the veteran racer suspiciously.

"I knew you as soon as I watched one of your races," Caesar began to elaborate, "Ever since then there has not been a single movement of yours in the air that has not given you away. Your power, your explosive speed, your ability to twist and turn around, under, or over your opponents with no more than a flick of your control surfaces, are unmistakable."

"What are you talking about," Ripslinger asked with narrowed eyes.

"I guess it comes as no surprise that you'd have the gumption to mock me. You know very well what I'm talking about. You think I wouldn't remember every detail of the only defeat I ever suffered in my entire career?" Caesar growled as his engine rumbled. "But that's why no one else is able to compete with you, because none of them know what I know. You may have everyone else fooled with this charade, but as of this race, your time in the limelight is done."

"Well," replied Ripslinger curtly, "I suppose I should prepare myself."

"You had better," Caesar said darkly, "As the son of Slingblade the Boomslang, I hope you will not disappoint me."

Ripslinger watched him leave, glaring. _'You'd better watch what you wish for, old-timer, or you might just get it.'_

As it turned out, for the first time in his racing career, Ripslinger did not get first pole, Caesar the King did, but when they were released to the field, Volgyr ended up outbreaking the both of them. Quickly crossing over into the inside position, he took the lead, but only held it for roughly twenty seconds before Casesar began to cut in halfway down the backstretch, gradually pulling level with him before taking the lead for himself. Ripslinger was right on their tails, with all three planes racing away far ahead of the pack. Then, as Volgyr increased his altitude for the far turn in an attempt to do a power dive to regain the lead, Ripslinger took the chance to dive down himself underneath him and over the head of Caesar, taking the lead by over one hundred sixty-five feet. Greatly outpaced, Voldyr could not keep up his speed, and from that point on, the race was down to Caesar and Ripslinger. The crowds below roared and agonized as the two Mustangs exchanged the lead from one another at every turn. To them, it could have been anyone's race, but in the air, despite his performance, Caesar was struggling.

He knew now, that he would not be able to keep this pace. He almost knew at just how hard he had to fight to get back up with Ripslinger after he'd passed him the first time. But he could not allow himself to be beaten. Not when this plane's father had defeated him all those years ago and broke his winning streak. He wasn't even supposed to be alive! While even he had to admit that he had reacted in shock and even sorrow at the tragedy, he had taken it bitterly as well. He had never gotten his chance at a rematch after that first loss. For all the indignation, this was the closest that he was going to get at this point. Despite the heat and increasing pain in his engine, he throttled on, and at his absolute limit, was now wing-to-wing with Ripslinger. For an instant, he had actually managed to inch ahead, but then, as they approached the last turn, he began to fall back. Out of the corner of his eye, Ripslinger saw Caesar's his nose suddenly pitch up. It was over. Eyes rolling back, his mouth opened wide as his lips pulled back over his teeth, and the veteran's tongue lolled as black smoke began to pour from his exhausts and cowling, face awash in wide-eyed agony and desperation. Indifferent, Ripslinger continued to power ahead, winning the race by over four lengths despite Caesar flying his fastest time.

He did it. He had won. As of right now, as far as he was concerned, he was officially a Champion, and because he had won every race he flew for the season, he had also earned the title of Unlimited Pylon Racer as well as the award for Rookie of the Year. Ripslinger stood in the winner's circle, cameras flashing and confetti flying thick as a blizzard, casting a cool glance over at the runway, where Caesar was currently collapsed, surrounded by medical personnel, moaning and writhing. As he was accepting his titles and his cup and bouquet and obscenely large check, along a gold pin in the shape of a Browning 50-Cal to commemorate winning the War Thunder Conference, Kenny approached him. The PI team were back, and the lead investigator wanted to speak with him. He swallowed, feeling his tanks sink as anxiety bloomed in his belly. He had no idea what news he was about to hear. He had specifically told them that they were only to come back when she was found, but was she alive? The team were waiting for him when he returned to the Antech tents. The team leader, a black Mercedes-AMG GT, approached him.

"Mr. Ripslinger," he greeted, demeanor as sharp and icy as ever.

"Well?" the Mustang said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, "Have you found her? Did you find Isabelle?"

"The short answer is no," answered the Mercedes, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.

"What?" Ripslinger said incredulously, his apprehension quickly turning to anger, "I thought I made it very clear that I didn't want to see your faces again unless you had found her!"

"It's not that we didn't find her, Mr. Ripslinger," the investigator, responded, not the slightest bit fazed, "It's that we can't find her."

Ripslinger was quiet for a moment as he processed what was just said.

"Explain that," he demanded.

"We were able to track her movements from the start of the timeline you gave us. She was fostered out of the last group home she was in after six months but no one ever committed. She bounced around from placement to placement. Her last foster home had her the longest, even keeping her after she had aged out. However, that's where the trail starts to weaken."

"And so?" pressed Ripslinger.

"By this time she was almost on the other side of the country as she'd moved from home to home," the Mercedes continued, "As far as we can tell, she left her last foster home on her own, went south, with her last whereabouts being in Tennessee. After that, the trail goes dead. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to find out anything more. She's just disappeared."

"They obviously weren't your best efforts," Ripslinger growled, "You never said anything about her being dead, just that the trail went dead. If there's a chance that she's still alive, why aren't you still looking for her?"

"Yes, that is true," admitted the PI calmly, "We have not found any evidence that she is in fact deceased. However, there's more evidence to suggest that may be the case than not."

"And what evidence is that?"

"For one, it's highly unlikely that it's just a coincidence that the last foster parents she had were both murdered," the sedan said bluntly, Ripslinger checking slightly at the information, "And besides, if she were alive, don't you think that she would have gone through the same pains that you have to try to find her, and that she would have found you by now?"

The P-51 stared down at the car for a few moments, absorbing his words, and finding absolutely no shift in his continence, or question of his logic, he sighed through his exhausts, sinking in to his landing gear as he shut his eyes. There was a nearly imperceptible softening of the Mercedes' expression, the silence between them soft as snow.

"I am sorry," he said, "Believe me when I say that we truly have done everything that we could to find your sister."

"You may go," was Ripslinger's only response, to which the Mercedes nodded, his partners taking their leave after him.

The blue and red Mustang was silent for the whole trip back. Kenny didn't know what had transpired between him and the PI team, but he didn't need to know. He fought down a shiver as he sat next to his charge. It was clear from the aura put off by the plane's twisted Soul that the mission had been a failure. He lay down on his sleeping mat aboard the plane, staring straight ahead, barely blinking as his Soul thrummed and wavered in a slowly but ever-increasing ambient, groaning hum that hissed and stewed. Nevertheless, a great party was awaiting them at his homecoming to celebrate another flawless season in which he was crowned Champion.

"Ripslinger!" Sid called as the team were exiting the plane, "Welcome home! Let's see that certificate!"

Kenny pulled it out to show the two Sedans, who were grinning from blinker to blinker.

"Look at that," Roy marveled, "Ch. Ripslinger UPR. How does that feel?"

"Wonderful," replied the Mustang, putting on his usual face without missing a beat, "It is good to be home though. The public's waiting, I assume?"

"Oh they certainly are. Everybody's been waiting for their hero to return," said Roy, "However, we've got a little present for you first."

"Oh?" Ripslinger said, not entirely feigning curiosity.

"Of course," replied Sid, "Seeing as how you'll be racing as a Champion from now on, we thought that a brand new paint job was in order. We think you'll be happy with what we came up with for you."

"Ah," said Ripslinger, looking almost bemused, "Well, let's get to it then."

Waiting for them down in Porter's lair was the heavy forklift himself, and standing next to him was a small, plain, unassuming Honda Civic LX. He was completely white apart from a strip of tough, thick plastic running laterally down each of his flanks. He was a younger car, just a few years older than Ripslinger, and he looked up at the plane with soft but unwavering deep brown eyes.

"This is the artist?" Ripslinger asked, raising a skeptical brow at Sid and Roy while the smaller car remained silent.

"Don't let Fry Boy's plain commonness fool you, this guy here is the best in the industry," Roy assured him, "He's studied and apprenticed under the old masters and his own work is exemplary. This is the car that's painted the likes of Bull Run, Riff Raff, the Queen of Thorns, I could go on."

Ripslinger now re-appraised this little Honda before him, who seemed to unabashedly appraise him right back with that quietly innocuous stare.

"Alright, let's get this over with," said, Ripslinger.

"Thank you, Sir," Fry Boy finally spoke, his voice a warm, firm tenor. "This way, please."

This car knew planes. He somehow knew Ripslinger even though this was the first time ever interacting with him. Kenny was thoroughly impressed. Ripslinger had had a special hood put on him and filters applied to his intakes and over his exhausts to protect his eyes and keep him from breathing in the fumes from the paints and lacquer. He was very professional and spoke little except to let Ripslinger know where he was and what he was doing and to tell him to lean or tilt a certain way, and Ripslinger was uncommonly obedient. Of course, the only other time he was this compliant had been when he was near death. Kenny sighed softly in sorrow. He had been skeptical himself, although he'd never let the P-51 know it, that Isabelle was still alive, but yet, he couldn't help but have some hope. So much was his pity and loyalty to this plane. As for Ripslinger himself, he sat quietly while Fry Boy went about his work, barely feeling anything that was done to him.

He was thinking. About everything that had transpired over the last eleven years. About everything he'd had to endure as he bided his time in the orphanage. About everything that he'd put himself through as an air racer. All his wins and trophies and sponsorships and titles. It was all for her sake. Just so that he could find her, and he'd failed. And he hadn't just failed, she was likely already dead before he'd even got started. All the torment and pain and anguish and risks he took were all for absolutely fucking nothing! He was all alone. He'd been alone this whole time. He began to shake, feeling himself go weak in his landing gear as he began to hyperventilate.

"Sir?"

Fry Boy's soft, clear voice had stuttered him out of it, reminding him of where he was before he could sink any deeper. The call was not in annoyance, to tell him to keep still lest he compromise the work being done, but of quiet concern. Taking a deep breath through his intakes, he released it through his mouth with a slight shudder.

"Continue."

The rest of the job went on in silence. Thanks to the wonders of technology, work like this that normally took days could be done in a matter of hours, seven in this case. Base body colors were always done rather quickly, where the bulk of the time spent were on the accents and stenciling for the more elaborate jobs, as this apparently was. Ripslinger only sat in a daze, his mind racing, as it had been for over a decade, and yet he was so numb. His mind had been hell-bent on only three things for so long. He tried to think over the overriding directive of survival, racing, and finding his sister, but couldn't. He had clung to these objectives so hard, that they had simply become encapsulated into his psyche behind steel walls that blocked out all other things. His mind could not associate with anything outside those walls. There was nothing beyond them anymore. In the meantime, Fry Boy had finished his work, and was appraising it with that same gentle innocuousness instead of the usual smugness that others in his line of work would, then he turned when Sid and Roy entered the shop again.

"You look fabulous!" Sid exclaimed, "Absolutely glorious! Wonderful work, Fry Boy!"

"Yes, you really have outdone yourself this time," added Roy, "You got everything down to the tiniest detail."

"Well that's what I'm contracted for," said Fry Boy, nodding curtly, "Thank you, sirs. And here's to next season."

"Yes," Roy agreed, "And thank you!"

"Well Ripslinger," called Sid, "You ready to see the new you?"

When he didn't answer, the two cars led him over to a huge mirror so that he could survey Fry Boy's handiwork for himself, and when the took the hood off, Ripslinger went wide eyed and rigid as he sucked a short, sharp gasp through his intakes. He'd nearly fainted while his brain struggled to compute what he was looking at, as it appeared that he had suddenly come face to face with his father again. Was this real? Was he looking at a ghost? Or was this another hallucination? His father looked just as shocked to see his son as he stared back, and then Ripslinger noticed that the eyes were the wrong color, and his jaw dropped as he moved closer to the mirror, turning slightly. It was exactly the same. A toxic green front and wingtips clashed jarringly with glossy black wings and tail, and checker marks that draped over his back, with intricate flames adorning his intakes. Only, it wasn't SLINGBLADE that was stenciled boldly onto his flanks, it was RIPSLINGER. He looked toward the right down at the end of his wing. It was the number 13, not 52. It was him. Ripslinger gulped. It was him...

"You're speechless I see," Roy chuckled, "What did we tell you? Was he the best, or was he the best? Come on. Your public awaits, as you said. Let's go show the world our new Champion!"

Ripslinger continued staring at himself in the mirror for a few moments. His hollow bemusement almost came across as boredom, the way it showed on his face. He saw his whole life laid out before him now. He'd already seen it when he was a child watching his father, lived it, for the last few years, and on the inside, he was screaming. Screaming in horror, grief, and rage. As he indeed had been since he had been robbed of everything he knew or would have otherwise experienced. Ever since that other part of him emerged and pushed it down so that he would not lose his wits. So that he would survive. So that could find his sister. But she was gone, and with her, the plane that he originally was, and would have been. Beaten down and buried by the ruthless indifference that had insured his survival for the last eleven years. Compassion and morality were simply weaknesses that he wouldn't have been able to afford. What else was he to do if he were to save his sister? Allow himself to break and become some pathetic, cracked-up mental case? Be a good boy and play by the rules and wait his turn while she suffered? And now that she was gone, was he just supposed throw it all away? The penthouse, the pool, the money, the girls, the power that he had nearly killed himself for? Like hell! He had invested over a decade of hydraulic fluid, oil, and tears to get where he was, and now, it was all he had.

Lead out onto the stage to the immense noise of the crowd, he held his nose high. As the ceaseless flashing of the cameras of the multitude of tabloids and news organizations popped all around him, he let loose a thunderous roar from his engine, contra-rotating props spinning into a blur as white smoke blew from his exhausts, the next day's magazines and news articles capturing the spectacle with the headline, "The Boomslang Lives On!"

* * *

Well there it is. While some monsters are born, others are also created.


End file.
